


Radio Song

by azephirin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1000-3000 words, 1000-5000 Words, Angst, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Morning, Music, Radio, Sharing a Bed, Siblings, Stanford Era, University, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 22:11:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/58278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>I meant to turn it off, to say goodbye, to leave in quiet....</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Radio Song

**Author's Note:**

> [As requested](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/63635.html?thread=691603#t691603) by [](http://wilde-moon.livejournal.com/profile)[**wilde_moon**](http://wilde-moon.livejournal.com/) (and seconded by [](http://kreutzmarie.livejournal.com/profile)[**kreutzmarie**](http://kreutzmarie.livejournal.com/)). Sorry I couldn't work in the sexin'. Title, summary, and cut text from "[Radio Song](http://www.retroweb.com/rem/lyrics/song_RadioSong.html)" by R.E.M.

Three to six on Tuesday morning isn't one of the prime slots at KZSU, but Sam doesn't mind it. It's what he does every week at this time, and the campus is always quiet when he walks there and back. The guy before him is a stoner who plays a whole lot of Phish and always observes a moment of silence in Jerry Garcia's memory; the girl after him, a blonde named Jessica, is a perky morning person who always brings Sam coffee. Sam had never even entertained the idea of a radio show, but his freshman-year roommate talked him into it. Now it's his sophomore year, and this is just one more thing he wouldn't have been able to do if he'd lived the life his father wanted.

An IM pops up on the DJ account: _u have any antigone rising?_

Sam checks the database; they do. He's got time left for about three tracks, so he can get this one in. _Sure, any song in particular?_

_longshot, its off rock album._

_No problem. Where are you?_

_australia. up late studying. :) thx!_

That's what Sam loves most about this slot: He hears from people all over the world. Not-quite-six-a.m. in California is not quite nine a.m. in New York City—the beginning of the workday—and not quite eleven p.m. in Sydney. He cues up "Longshot," then tries to decide what to finish with. He settles on a cut from 1 Giant Leap, but he's going to need one more—

He's never heard the Antigone Rising before, but it's oddly mournful. He listens as far as "it's easy now when I look back," and then, for no reason he will let himself name, he finds "Harvester of Sorrow." It's a jolt after 1 Giant Leap, but Sam programs it in anyway.

He hands the studio over to Jessica about thirty seconds into the Metallica; she makes a face but hands him coffee nevertheless. "This isn't your usual thing," she says.

"Guy's gotta have his Metallica sometimes," he says, and gives her a smile.

"Oh, right. I forgot. The International Code of Testosterone." She rolls her eyes and swats him on the shoulder, and he laughs and takes his leave.

She's pretty and smart, and Sam's wanted more than once to ask her out, but she's out of his league, and he knows it.

He's on the front steps of Memorial Hall when suddenly someone is standing next to him.

"Man, you finally played some decent music. I was wondering if it would ever happen." He turns to stare at Dean, who's standing there like he always shows up on the Stanford campus at 6:03 a.m. on Tuesdays with a duffel bag over his shoulder. "That coffee?" Dean asks, and takes it without waiting for the answer. He drinks, then makes a face. "Jesus, Sammy, you put the whole jug of milk in here?"

It's true that Jessica always brings it lighter than Sam prefers, but if Sam mentions her, he's opening himself up to a whole series of interrogations from Dean. "I like it that way," Sam says, and takes the coffee back. "What are you doing here?"

"Man can't visit his geeky brother now and then?"

"At six in the morning?"

Dean shrugs. "Had a hunt in Salt Lake wrapped up last night, Dad had some things to do, I had some time."

Neither of them say aloud that Salt Lake City is eleven hours from here.

What Sam says is, "You must be tired. My roommate's at his girlfriend's if you want to stay over with me."

Dean tilts his head for a moment like he's considering the offer—like he'd just love to stay with Sam, but there is that reserved suite at the Four Seasons, after all. "Sure," he says following a sufficient pause. "Why not."

It's about a mile from Memorial Hall to Sterling Quad and, Sam thinks, a lot they could catch up on during the walk, but they don't. They're as quiet as the sleeping campus, but it's surprisingly not awkward, just the two of them walking side by side the way they did for years.

They fall back into it easily.

Sam lets them into Schiff House with his cardkey, and they go up to the fourth floor. True to Sam's word, Colin's bed is empty. He points Dean in the direction of the bathroom to shower, then stands blankly in the center of his room, wondering what the hell he's supposed to do now. He doesn't have class until midafternoon on Tuesdays, so usually he takes a nap.

Fuck it. Dean's the one who barged in, who ambushed him on the steps of Memorial; he can deal with Sam's need for a nap. A nap should be required, Sam thinks, before dealing with Dean.

He turns off the overhead, turns on the desk lamp so that Dean won't trip over his own stupid feet, and crawls jeans and all into bed. Dean can crash on Colin's bed or sleep on the floor. They've both slept on worse. It doesn't matter to Sam at all, Sam tells himself.

The door opens a few minutes later, then clicks closed quietly. For a moment Sam hears no movement in the room—as though Dean, too, is getting his bearings—and then Sam hears quiet motion and shuffling fabric. There's another pause, another silence; the desk lamp is switched off; and then Dean's hand presses lightly at Sam's back. Sam rolls over and makes space for him, and they're both way too big to fit together in a college dorm extra-long twin bed, but somehow they do, legs bumping and then tangling, Sam's head settling on Dean's shoulder, his hand on Dean's chest, as Dean wraps an arm around him, runs gentle fingers through Sam's hair. "You look like friggin' Shaggy-Doo," Dean says.

Sam doesn't point out that Shaggy's name is not Shaggy-Doo. That isn't the point. Dean smells like clean water, and like Sam's shampoo, and like the Ivory soap that they've both used as long as Sam can remember, and now he's afraid that if he tries to retort his voice will shake, because Dean is so close and it's been so long.

Sam moves a little, puts himself at eye level with Dean, and when Dean turns to look at him, the kiss is inevitable. Through the overlay of toothpaste, Dean tastes like he always has, and Sam hears himself sigh, pulls Dean closer. The kiss is long, searching, and Dean grips him tightly, one hand still in Sam's hair, the other urgent on the back of his neck.

Sam doesn't ask when Dean is leaving. The answer might be tomorrow, but it might also be later today. Sam might well head out for his political science class and come back to find Dean gone. (He could of course skip political science—it wouldn't hurt his grade—but he knows that won't make Dean stay.)

The first kiss falls into a second, and Sam moves so that Dean's on top of him, so that he can feel Dean's body stretched out over his own. They move together, slow, familiar, and Sam tries to breathe in as much of Dean as he can, taking in his brother like a cactus takes in water, storing up riches for the dry times to come.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a very long time since I've done college radio, and I imagine the technology has changed. Apologies for anything I may have gotten wrong there.


End file.
